Novice
by SteveGarbage
Summary: "They'll never understand your gifts, your challenges or the danger you face daily." - A story of Bethany Hawke, told in brief scenes of 100 words each.
1. A Young Apostate

**Part One: A Young Apostate**

She hides under her bed, clutching Ser Bark in her arms as she scrunches under the mattress.

Carver was hitting her stuffed mabari with a stick. She told him to stop. Then he cracked Ser Bark's glass eye. She slapped him and pulled his hair. He punched her in the shoulder. Her hand started on fire and burned his scalp.

She can see her father's boots. His joints crack as he lays down, peeking under the bed.

"I'm sorry, father." She sniffles.

He snaps his fingers, a small flame dances between his fingertip.

"It's OK, Bethany," her father says, smiling.

* * *

Bethany cringes as the bitter lyrium touches her tongue and she forces herself to swallow it.

Her father squeezes her hand. "Hold on."

She feels dizzy and her eyes grow heavy. Bethany's small hand tightly holds on as she feels like she is falling. Her body jerks and she opens her eyes. A green valley, filled with wildflowers and small river that pours over the cliff in a white, bubbling waterfall.

"Where are we?" she asks. There was nowhere like this near Gwaren.

"This is the Fade."

"It's beautiful."

"It's dangerous," her father says, reminding her with a gentle squeeze.

* * *

"She's not too young."

"She was scared half to death!" her mother shouts from the other room. The thin walls do little to cut her voice. Bethany shivers under her blanket. Eyes wide. Unable, unwilling to go back to sleep.

Carver and Garrett snore loudly in their beds.

"She needs to learn."

"She's only eight."

"Not too young for a demon."

The shifting, shadowy shade had its claws wrapped around her arm before she snapped awake, screaming.

"Maybe-"

"No."

"Malcolm-"

"I said no, damnit!"

The front door slams. Bethany pretends to sleep when her mother slips back into the bedroom.

* * *

Carver is still glaring at her as mother's horse trots past them up the road.

"How much farther, father?" Garrett asks. He is old enough to ride his own horse. Bethany sits in front of her father, his arms draped around her as he loosely holds the reins.

The saddlebags on the horses hold everything that was worth taking. The rest of their possessions, her father had sold to an elf and his family.

There were too many Templars in Gwaren.

"Just a little more today, son," Malcolm says.

The Kirkwallers hadn't come for her.

They were looking for him.

* * *

"This place smells," Carver whines.

"Be quiet, Carver," Leandra scolds..

The shack outside of Lothering is smaller than their home in Gwaren. The wind carries the smell of manure off the field.

"Why did we have to leave home?" Carver continues.

"I said be quiet," Leandra says more forcefully.

"It's _her_ fault, isn't it?" he accuses.

"Shut up, Carver," Garrett says, shoving his brother.

"Garrett, stop."

"You shut up!" Carver throws a wild punch. Garrett catches it in his hand and returns one that cracks across Carver's mouth.

But it is Bethany, not Carver, crying, as Leandra separates the boys.

* * *

She jumps every time the wooden swords clack together.

Garrett's eyes and arms are steady and his feet move with practiced purpose. He's a head taller than Carver and much stronger. Carver growls and grimaces and swings his sword around wildly. Bethany hates watching them fight, even if it's just for practice.

"Do you see how important focus is, Bethany?" her father asks. "Look at Garrett. He's calm, completely in control."

Her hands tremble as she pushes the mana up her arms and into her fingertips.

The cold puff of ice sputters and dies as it brushes the green grass.

* * *

The stained glass windows in the west wall of the Chantry sparkle like jewels as the sun pours through them in the late afternoon.

The golden flames around Andraste's feet smolder as dusken beams pour around them. The indistinct black shapes of hooded magisters ringing the stake are dim in comparison.

Her hands are folded as she kneels in the pew and she recites her prayers. She always stares at this one glass panel, even though its image strikes terror in her heart. She always looks past the burning prophet, to the faceless Tevinters.

They are mages, just like her.

* * *

Her father extends his hand toward her.

"Come on," he says. "It's time. You're ready."

The cave he beckons her toward is dark and deep. She reaches out toward it, her sixth sense snaking through the ether like fingers dragging through her long hair. What she feels is emptiness, a hole that goes down and down and down and never ends.

She grabs his hand, giving a gentle squeeze.

He doesn't squeeze back.

The Rage Demon screams as she pushes the ice through her hand, holding tightly as its molten body squirms and struggles.

She won't be tricked by its kind.

* * *

The wracking cough sounds as hollow and endless as the Fade as the dribble of blood sputters between her father's lips.

Bethany is the only one who stays at his bedside as he lays dying.

Her mother weeps uncontrollably to see him like this. She only goes inside the room during the brief hours when Bethany sleeps.

Garrett rode for Redcliffe to seek a physician. But they have little money and the journey is far.

She doesn't know where Carver is. He bloodied his knuckles punching the wall on his way out.

Malcolm passes overnight while Bethany is asleep.

* * *

Birchcore is top-heavy. The wood is nicked in several places. There is nothing elaborate, unusual or fanciful about her father's staff.

The wrapped grip is worn and stained with sweat where her father's hands wrapped around it. As she places her fingers over the dirty marks, they are thinner and smaller than his.

 _Bethany,_

 _Take care of your mother and your brothers for me.  
_ _Forgive them. They'll never understand your gifts, your challenges or the danger you face daily.  
_ _Not like I do._

The staff is only remarkable because it was his and because she never saw it before today.


	2. Darkness

**Part Two: Darkness**

Bethany feels safest on the steps on the Chantry, with the gaze of all the Templars, sisters and acolytes gazing through her and not knowing her.

"If you're really interested, I can reach out to the Knight Commander." She overhears the words as Ser Bryant approached with Carver in tow. He always follows the Templar like a puppy.

"I'd like that," Carver says, looking sidelong at his sister.

"Good morning, Ser Bryant," Bethany says with a coy smile as she folds her hands.

"Good morning," he says kindly. But he doesn't notice her.

Carver is glaring and she quietly retreats.

* * *

The Hawke boys smile and wave as they set off southward down the road.

Bethany waves back. Mother is holding a kerchief over her mouth to hide her frown of disapproval. It was Garrett's idea. The king was calling for more levies at Ostagar. The pay was three times what Barlin was offering for labor on the farm.

Garrett is confident they'll be far from the fighting, because they're just two country boys, not soldiers. Mother isn't convinced.

Especially because they both leave with greatswords hanging across their backs, playing throwing jabs at each other and laughing as they go.

* * *

All of Lothering is startled from their homes in the middle of the night as the first survivor from Ostagar stumbles into town.

He is soaked through. Not even the pouring rain is powerful enough to cleanse the blood staining his ragged, shredded clothes. His eyes are white and wide and wild as he screams.

"They're coming! They're coming!" He shouts at anyone who will listen. "The King is dead! The darkspawn! The darkspawn are coming!"

He is gone nearly as quickly as he comes, his arms and legs flailing as he forces his exhausted limbs north through the storm.

* * *

For three days, Bethany helps tend to the wounded limping into Lothering.

They straggle in, two or three at a time. Some are soldiers, wearing broken armor and carrying swords, axes or bows heavy in their arms. Some are camp followers, bloody and shivering and happy to be away.

When no one is looking, she pushes a little magic into the wounds as she wraps gashes and cuts with fresh bandages.

All of the stories are bad.

Some of the men die painfully as black corruption courses through their veins.

She always looks to the road for Garrett and Carver.

* * *

Leandra sobs when she sees her boys running up the highway.

Ser Bryant and the last of the Templars evacuated two days ago with most of the townsfolk. He tried, unsuccessfully, to get Leandra to go without her sons.

"We have to go," Garrett says. " _Now."_

No one questions him.

Bethany had already packed everything they could carry as she thrusts the backpack into mother's arms. She pulls Birchcore out from under her bed.

There is no room for Ser Bark in her bag. She kisses his head.

They don't bother to close the door behind them as they flee.

* * *

Carver spares only a wordless nod for her.

The creature's curved black sword was locked on his blade. Its arms looked bony and weak, but it pushed Carver back as if he were a struggling child. The hurlock hissed in his face, its jagged, rotting teeth stretching out for his neck. The cords of Carver's neck were taut as he tried to shove the monster back.

Her ball of fire wobbled and spun through the air, exploding in a flash of heat and light as it struck the darkspawn across the back. The creature wailed. Carver cut it down.

Gratitude.

* * *

"We have to keep moving," Garrett says, ignoring the deep gash across the bridge of his nose and the streak of blood that marks him.

Four more dead darkspawn lie around them. Carver is breathing hard. Bethany's hands are shaking so badly that Birchcore trembles even when she wraps both hands around it. The stink of black darkspawn blood makes her dizzy.

"We would have been home days earlier if we just ran instead of constantly stopping to help people," Carver accuses. His bare arms are marked with a dozen cuts.

Garretts eyes blaze disapproval.

He swallows and says nothing.

* * *

Carver is dead before Bethany even has time to move.

She blanches, frozen, as the ogre scoops her brother off the ground. Panic shoots through her - one, two, three times - as the ogre slams Carver into the ground.

The side of his head is a twisted knot of blood and dirt.

Garrett flashes toward the ogre, sword gleaming, to do what Carver could not.

Twelve minutes.

She had claimed her first breath of life twelve minutes before him. Twelve minutes was never enough to reconcile the magic that divided them.

The cleft between them will always remain permanently, infinitely wide.

* * *

The demons are pulled to her as a beacon in her shallow, nightmarish sleep.

She does not disguise herself. She does not try to fool Bethany. Desire's eyes shine with deep, purple fire and a hungry ecstasy.

"I can give you the power to protect your family." The demon's words are honey-sweet, soothing to a raw, bleeding soul that screams across the Fade.

Her slender fingers lightly wipe the tears from Bethany's cheek. The demon takes her hand, squeezing it as gently, as calmly, as her father.

"Let me help you," Desire purrs.

Bethany hopes her father will forgive her.

* * *

She feels uneasy as the witch's eyes pierce through her, beyond her.

"Only foolish girls strike bargains in the depths of their grief."

"What would you know of grief?" Bethany spits.

Flemeth's cackle is loud and thunderous and chills her to the bone. Her mother and brothers do not stir from their unnaturally deep sleep.

"She burns, but she does not realize she is not the fire. The flame consumes, spewing only heat and shadow around it."

Flemeth's claw-like finger floats as it lifts from her sign, pointing toward the sleeping Garrett.

"There must be darkness to balance the light."


End file.
